


the addition of tattooed tears

by haemophilus



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: 2010s AU I guess, Cocaine, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, For Want of a Nail, General 616 attitude towards the shifting timeframe, Homelessness, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Whump, born again au, survival sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:57:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haemophilus/pseuds/haemophilus
Summary: Matt Murdock didn't have ten dollars in his pocket when his house burned down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a fic where Born Again is reimagined with more sexual exploitation and drug abuse. I can't promise anything other than the self-indulgent perverted rewrite Frank Miller would've wanted. I'm still deciding a little on other aspects of the story. Karen will probably be involved! Plus other characters! We have fun here!
> 
> Title from Tattooed Tears by The Front Bottoms because I like it. Warnings added to tags on the fic or corresponding chapters.

_”What I thought was sliding carefully was seriously slipping out of control.” - Tattooed Tears_

*

Matt’s head swam as he wandered away from the rubble where his house once stood. An unholy terror gripped him as he realized the costume he’d rescued had holes in it. His thumb worried at the worn edges of each one. They were in vital spots - the face, the chest, the crotch. It was beyond repair and in need of replacement. Fat chance he would try to get one now. Knowing the Kingpin, any costume he’d try to get would be laced with poison or would try to strangle him the moment he tried to put it on. Besides, he typically paid for his costume with cash under the table. The Kingpin had helpfully frozen all of his accounts from which he could have withdrawn the money he needed.

He could hear rubberneckers starting to murmur about the accident from the other side of the street. Ambulances were screaming as they closed in on him. New York City wouldn’t even allow him the dignity of privacy or the purification of raging flame. Their claustrophobic eyes drank in the destruction that he couldn’t see. When the fire was extinguished, the rubble would become near-invisible to him. Its smell would fade; its smoke would grow cold. Soon, it would be nothing more than pile of rocks. To a seeing person, the bricks would remain as a memorial. Perhaps there would be a sign he would never be able to read.

The tears that had streamed down his face were drying. Matt dropped the costume onto the ground, and crushed it into the dirt with his foot. He had to get out of here.

*

Night fell. His heavy feet trod of their own accord through the ugly noise of Times Square and into the heart of Midtown. He had to get to a hotel before he collapsed on the street. The two unused credit cards he had for emergencies filled his chest with the last glimmer of hope. He was down, but not out.

Matt slumped against the side of the building when he arrived at the Plaza. There was an undeniable finality to walking inside; he could no longer pretend that anyone cared to catch him when he fell. It was New York loneliness - eight million people and not a friend anywhere. Enemies in cubicles and in alleyways. He tilted his ear towards the sky, as though it might help him hear if a friend or foe was saying his name. There were too many Matthews in the city; it was useless. The only person he could trust was himself; the only things he had to fear were cogs set in motion a long time ago.

A chilly gust of air hit his lungs. He coughed and shivered - it was too cold to stay outside any longer. Matt entered the building, realizing his fingers had been numb when they started burning. He was so disoriented from his walk that his cane was actually helpful in finding the front desk. Matt fumbled for his card with trembling fingers and placed it in front of the clerk.

“One room. Queen sized, please. For Matt Murdock,” he said.

“Can do,” said the woman cheerfully. She typed his name into the computer, grabbed his card, and scanned it. The machine let out an ugly sound of defiance.

“I’m sorry, sir. It seems like your card has been declined,” the woman said.

Matt’s stomach clenched; bile rose in his throat. He fumbled in his wallet for his other card.

“Try this one,” he said, attempting to contain the shaking in his voice. The woman scanned it. Matt held his breath for an hour, two.

“Looks like this one has been declined as well,” said the clerk.

“No,” said Matt. A wave of panic crashed in his ears. “ _No_ \- these are for emergencies. I have two thousand dollars of credit. I swear.”

The clerk gave a miniscule sigh that made Matt’s throat ache.

“I can’t argue with the machine, sir.”

She pushed the cards towards Matt. The scrape of useless plastic mocked him. He picked them up with shaking hands and shoved them in the pocket of his jeans. It hurt his chest too much to put them back in his wallet.

The clerk sighed again. In his mind’s eye, her face cracked under his fist. Matt turned away from her to contain his rage, shoved his hands in his pockets, and stormed off.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some ableism and drinking.

Midtown’s nightlife was all that kept Matt upright as he walked aimlessly through the city yet again. He pushed his fingers under his glasses to rub at his eye. Tears were gathering at the corners -  _ weak _ . He was supposed to be a  _ hero  _ and here he was overreacting to a little poverty as if his grandparents hadn’t dealt with worse when they were fresh off the boat two generations ago. There were solutions beyond credit cards or hoping that friends were trustworthy. He could make money. . .somehow. 

A large crowd spilled out of the bar behind him. All men - positively  _ reeking _ with booze. Matt wrinkled his nose as he moved out of their way to avoid being trampled. New York was so much better when he was traveling through it thirty feet in the air. He never felt this lost when there was nothing but air and bravery carrying him through the city.

When the crowd passed, Matt set about figuring out where his feet had led him. The building had a chalkboard out front of it that presumably carried its name and drink specials. Absolutely useless. He walked over to the door to see if he could get more information from braille signage. Nothing but unreadable glass met his fingertips.

Soon, another crowd poured out of the bar - a second chance to get his bearings. Matt tapped the man who smelled the least like stale whiskey on his shoulder.

“’Scuse me. What bar is this?”

He sensed the guy inspecting him from tip to toes. The man’s throat flushed with heat. HIs heart beat a little faster -  _ desire _ . Matt reciprocated with a thin smile.

“Rooster’s. But the crowd’s no good in there on Tuesdays, hon. Just a bunch of old queens looking for live-in boyfriends.”

He made an indecipherable face that caused another, drunker man to burst out into giggles. 

_ Interesting _ .

“Not your type?” said Matt. The man snorted with derision.

“I don’t know anyone who wants to be the personal boy toy for any of the creepy old men in there,” the man said. Matt quirked him a reckless smile. He lightly tapped the other man on the head with the base of his cane for good measure.

“Congratulations,” he said. “You just met your first.”

*

Rooster’s was the dive to end all dives. A thin crust of pretzels and dried vomit scraped under his shoes the minute he walked in the door. The air reeked of cheap beer and long-unrequited desire. Five men were dancing listlessly on the sticky semblance of a dance floor. Their arms swayed heavy with downers - heroin, maybe, or secondhand prescriptions. Two men were slumped over the bar, dead asleep. The rest were chatting in variable states of drunkenness on barstools or leaned against walls. No bodies were free of the inelegant curve of liquor. 

Matt ran his hand through his hair and tried to not grimace at how greasy it was. Here, the mussed look would be an asset. He’d been to many of these bars in his. . .less admirable pre-Daredevil days. The ideal look was a youthful body with a thin film of sweat and dirt. Desperation was catnip to men like this. 

He sat down on a barstool and smoothly dropped his jacket to the floor. Matt rubbed casually at the stubble on his face. He tilted his face up to expose his neck. The stroke of his hand grew more seductive. Matt hadn’t been of age in time to learn the foreign art of sultry eye contact; he had to lean into his other assets to get by. His mouth opened slightly as he rolled his head further back. He slid his hand under the neck of his sweaty T-shirt to show off his biceps. The low-watt bulbs that buzzed in his ear couldn’t offer more than dim, dusty light. They’d surely cast shadows in the muscular grooves carved into his arms.

Most of the men sitting at the bar were too drunk to notice his peacocking. However, several men leaning against the wall had paused their conversations. He folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and leaned forward until his glasses slipped down his nose. One man tapped another on the shoulder and gestured towards Matt. He zoned in on their furtive conversation.

_ Go on. He’s into you! _

_ But I think he’s blind. Isn’t that kind of. . .taking advantage? _

_ Since when have you cared about taking advantage? Your last live-in was seventy pounds and half your age. _

_ He was a good lay! _

_ I know! So is this guy. I mean, his body is just insane. Way out of your league. _

Fuck, these negotiations always took forever. Women were  _ so _ much easier. On some level, they all felt that a blind man was less threatening than one who could see. Time to speed this up before he collapsed from exhaustion. Matt smiled in the general direction of the friends who were gossiping about him. He breathed a sigh of relief when the man flushed at the attention Matt sent his way. It would have been just his luck to send a smile just to the left of the man’s face on a night where it was so crucial to get his attention.

The man walked over - first hesitantly, then with more confidence. He leaned on the bar, heart fluttering with excitement.

“Hey, baby,” the man said in a deep baritone. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a rough place like this?”

Matt gave him another mischievous smile.

“Just waiting for a guy like you to buy me a drink.”

While the guy flagged down the bartender, Matt took the chance to properly size him up. He was taller than Matt by several inches and meatier too - though how much of it was muscle was hard to say. His body temperature ran cold in his fingers and toes - old age, though not elderly. He smelled of expensive cologne, sweat, and quality dry cleaning. Overall, a much better catch than Matt would’ve expected. He’d have somewhere warm and dry to stay in no time if he played his cards right.

The bartender placed a shot down in front of him. A foul odor of tequila and pickle juice threatened to gag him. He fumbled for the shot anyway - no time to be a pussy. The man across from him raised his glass in cheers.

“To your health, uh. . .”

“Mike,” lied Matt. He downed the shot. It fought against his throat and stomach in a way that told him it would come back later. The man across from him slammed his shot glass facedown on the counter with a hollow clank.

“Two more,” he said. His hand slid across the counter to Matt’s wrist. The rings on his fingers were icy against Matt’s skin. 

“You gonna tell me your name before you get me drunk?” said Matt. The man squeezed Matt’s wrist as he laughed.

“Sure. I’m Adam.”

Two more disgusting shots slid over to them. Matt downed it without listening to whether Adam cheered his health a second time.

He was going to survive this. He was going to  _ survive _ .


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for homophobia and (dream) violence towards a homeless person.

Adam's apartment was several stops away in Soho. He held Matt's hand as they waited for the 1 train, a centering force among the crowds of confused tourists that littered Midtown's underground. Matt could smell the arousal radiating off of his partner; even in these piss-filled tunnels it was unmistakable. Several feet away, a couple of Midwestern tourists were whispering about them.

_ Queer  _ **_and_ ** _ blind? Now I’ve seen everything.  _

_ Welcome to New York, I guess.  _

Matt’s face grew hot. He wasn’t ashamed of being queer but being singled out with derision while he was doing something he wasn’t particularly proud of was another matter entirely. Adam’s hand crawled to his back and wrapped around his hip. He pulled Matt closer to his side. His chapped lips brushed against Matt’s neck. The tourists talked louder.

_ The least they could do is keep their hands to themselves. _

_ Right? I mean, I’m not homophobic, but they don’t have to flaunt it. _

Adam rubbed at his side sensually. He hummed with pleasure. The tourists were out of his earshot. Matt was in his own personal purgatory; the choice between humiliation and having a place to sleep buzzed aggressively in his ears. This is what the Kingpin did - he crushed pride in his fat fist. Spirits were broken not in the loss of a house or a job but in frantic hands clawing through wood to get to the bottom of the barrel from the dirt underneath. Given time, the average man would dig his own grave.

Matt was not an average man. He was not clawing. This was but one step in a long game that would end with the Kingpin locked away for good. There were worse things in life than fleeting small indignities. A bed was much more important than the opinions of strangers. He would not be a slave to his own ruined pride. Someday soon he would earn it back in Wilson Fisk’s spilled blood.

He tilted his neck to give Adam access to his collarbone. Adam squeezed his hip. The train rounded the corner and shook the corridor. Drops of moldy water dripped onto his head. He grabbed Adam’s hand when the door opened and pulled him into a car far away from the tourists. Mercifully, he was free of their gossip.

The train car was packed too tight to sit down. Midtown's bars had all flooded onto the subway at 2 AM on the dot. Adam and Matt hung off the same pole with his cane tucked underneath his own arm. He rested his head on the cool metal of the pole. Adam cupped his fingers around Matt's. Their arms swung along with the train’s inertia. Courteous quiet fell over the car. Conversations hushed; earbuds inserted into ears. Some travelers fell asleep. Still, a courteous quiet for most was a barrage of sensations for Matt. He exhaled and set himself to doing what he did best on the train: meditation. 

After another calming breath, Matt set out to focus on the structure and movement of the train. He counted the rotations per minute of the wheels; found and named individual notes in the symphony of its screech along the tracks; and smelled the rust, paint, and oil that signified structural damage and repair. Matt lost himself in the 1 train; his body was only flesh. This was the zen of New York which natives sensed but were ill-equipped to describe. The freedom to live outside your own body among others who were doing the same. 

Matt’s meditation morphed into a doze -

_ He was curled in on himself with a worn jacket poorly blanketing his frozen body. This was his third train of the day - a numbered line for a quieter ride. The stench radiating off of him was unbearable even to his own nose. Each hour floated between sleep and waking. A candy bar wrapper crinkled in his pocket. He’d stolen it at Delancey street long enough ago to be hungry again.  _

_ -Hey! Asshole! Stop sleeping on the goddamn train!- _

_Someone kicked under the seat where he was sleeping. He curled in on himself further, too tired to fight. The person became more brazen and punched him in the gut. Before Matt could even summon the energy to move, a wave of people piled on top of him. Hundreds of angry bodies peeling off his skin, pulling off his fingernails, punching, kicking, biting until he was nothing but bruises and bones. They chanted his name - someone had_ ** _told them_** _his name._

_ Matt. Matt. Matt. Matt - _

“Mike?”

Matt startled awake. Somehow, he was more exhausted than before his impromptu nap. The world crackled unpleasantly around him as if his senses were caked in mud. 

“Hm?” He clenched and unclenched his hand around his cane, willing himself to be more alert.

“Thought you dozed off there for a minute,” said Adam. He was standing closer to Matt now with his arm curved possessively around Matt’s waist. Matt plastered a smile on his face.

“Nah. Just had a lot to drink. Spaced out for a second,” he said. Adam chuckled and squeezed his hip tighter. He tilted his head down to put his lips closer to Matt’s ear.

“Don’t worry - I have some stuff at home to perk both of us right up,” he murmured.

Before Matt could ask any follow-up questions, the train’s doors whooshed open.

_ “Canal Street. Next stop: Franklin Street. Stand clear of the closing doors.” _

Adam let go of Matt’s hip. He tugged at his wrist.

“This is us,” he said. Matt followed, adrift and vulnerable in the shallow tide of his new life. The train doors whooshed closed behind them and rushed away. He couldn’t help but feel that he left something behind that he would never find again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Train Hot Takes (tm):
> 
> -I’ve actually only taken the 1 train like twice but it is such a cute little train that I do wish I had more reason to take it. Maybe I should go to extremely specific parts of Greenwich Village more. In general I have a deep fondness for the numbered trains - particularly the 6 which is definitely my favorite train in the city. Union Square! Canal Street! 42nd Street! Bleecker Street! Brooklyn Bridge! Love that girl!
> 
> -I considered sticking them on the ACE line (what I like to call the ‘welcome to New York’ line which a lot of tourists take and which is conversely the most aggressively unfriendly to people who have never taken trains) but the ride to Soho would have been too short and I wanted Matt to get in a nice trauma nap before I really start giving him a hard time.
> 
> -When I was double-checking the stops on the 1 I realized the Soho Canal Street off the 1 was not in fact the OTHER Canal Street which is deeply useful as a transfer to Brooklyn but which I also kind of hate because all the passageways are narrow and it smells really bad. So I had like a whole rant written up and then it was a different Canal Street station. The MTA sure has a way with words that keeps you on your toes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for cocaine use and dubious consent. No depiction of actually using the drug is present but Matt is super high for like the entire second section of this and for a good chunk of the first portion he’s waxing on how much he loves cocaine. So, ykno, self care and all that. Please do not relapse on behalf of my hookerfic.

Adam's loft was massive and warm. Matt ran his fingers over the walls as Adam slipped into the bedroom to ‘get a little more comfortable.’ Even his paint was expensive - a gloss that neatly filled in the tiny crevasses of his fingerprints. He wiped his hand on his pants as he tapped over to the furniture. It was impossible to tell by touch whether the small amount of paint was visible on his fingers. God forbid it should rub off on Adam's expensive decor and get him thrown out before he could even stay the night.

His couch was made of velvet - decorative and expensive but not comfortable. The cushions had little give when Matt pressed his palm against him. No one sat here. In fact, no one sat on  _ any _ of the chairs in Adam's living room. There were no water rings from drinks on his mahogany coffee table. All of the magazines on it were pristine. Somehow, Matt had found an apartment with unused space in Manhattan.

Matt tapped over to the kitchen to check it out. Polished stone countertops - granite, probably. Stainless steel sink, fridge, garbage disposal, and dishwasher. His wine rack was made of wood from a cherry tree and was filled with wine that smelled like it had been aged for fifty years. The clink of the bottles under his fingers told Matt that many of the bottles were half-empty. Adam entertained in here - though not enough to drink entire bottles of wine. When Matt inspected the glass kitchen table, he found something that gave him pause. A thin coat of fine white powder clung to his fingertips. He raised it to his mouth and licked it. The hypersensitive tip of his tongue went numb.

_ Cocaine. _

He had suspected this when Adam made his comment about finding a way to ‘pick him up’ but it hadn’t seemed real until now. To survive, Matt was going to have to snort cocaine. He sucked on his pinkie, appreciating its familiar taste - vinegar, bitter florals, baking powder. It had been a long time since he’d indulged his cravings for the drug. Not since Columbia when Foggy had started asking too many questions about where he went at night and when he slept. “Fighting crime in black pajamas while high on cocaine” was an impossible answer - all this, of course, without mentioning the bars Matt frequented where he got the coke in the first place. His friend would've been far too square to understand why Matt would ever go to those.

Adam's bedroom drawer opened. He walked over to Matt, nude except for the boxers that swished around his hips. A crinkly plastic bag plopped onto the table with a sandy thunk. Particles that clung to the bag's loose seal dispersed into the air. Matt's nose tingled and then numbed from the contact high. He tongued at the underside of his teeth to subtly stretch his mouth. Behind him, Adam encircled Matt's waist with his arms.

“You're still so overdressed, baby,” he said.

The wiry hairs on Adam's chin rubbed grotesquely against Matt's cheek. His crotch, flush with Matt's ass, was tented. Matt tapped the base of the glass table with his foot. Another small puff of cocaine landed on his face. The sensuous smile he gave Adam was lit up by the drug. 

“Just thought you might want to strip me down yourself,” said Matt. He fiddled with the zipper on his puffy coat and bit his lip. A groan of arousal rumbled in Adam’s throat.

“Well when you put it like that,” he said as he unzipped Matt’s jacket. Matt shivered when it dropped to the floor. It couldn’t be more than 65 degrees in here - far too chilly to be wearing only a tee shirt. Adam slowly ran his hands down Matt’s arms.

“I know, it’s a bit chilly in here. Don’t worry - I have something to warm us up.”

He moved Matt’s hand to touch the bag of cocaine on the table. Matt feigned a look of curiosity. 

“What is it?” he asked, squeezing it in his fist. Another phantom of cocaine blew out of the bag.  _ Delicious _ . Matt licked his lips, allowing some to land on his tongue. Adam, mistaking the movement for arousal, kissed his neck. He tucked his hand into the front pocket of Matt’s pants and splayed his palm against Matt’s thigh.

“It’s glitter,” he said.

*

They fell out of their clothes, piece by piece, a gingerbread trail of debauchery that led to Adam’s spacious bedroom. Matt shivered;  _ heat - chill - arousal - anger - disgust - excitement _ flickered through his mind and flew away. The heat map of his own body went haywire as the cocaine burrowed into every venule and capillary. He’d snorted more than he needed on purpose. This high needed to last through the long slog of a fuck he was about to have with Adam. Cocaine’s manic voice stage-whispered infinite possibility in his ear.

His arms splayed out like a crucifixion when he tumbled onto the bed. Martyrdom was the last crumb of dignity he had left. Soon, he would experience rebirth. Divine retribution tingled in his fingers and toes. Adam crushed their lips together, defiling god-turned-flesh. Matt moved his hands down to Adam’s ass and dug his nails into his too-human wrinkly skin. He had no idea that God was dying. Adam’s thick finger didn’t hurt when it split him open. Dead people felt no pain.

“You’re so fucking hot,” said Adam. Matt’s head was submerged in cocaine’s tide. His ears were legally blind. Everything smelled like rotted fruit. He could be fucking a supermodel. Adam could be the sexiest middle-aged pervert since Hugh Hefner. This was the best sex Matt had ever had. Their bodies slapped together terribly like clammy applause. He was going to vomit.This was the worst day of his life.

Their hearts pitter-pattered like out of sync snare drums. He’d been too poor to play an instrument before he became blind. After, harsh drum beats made his ears ache. This was worse - stuck in a loop of alternating rhythms. Adam’s drum was buried in his chest; it was meat and electricity. He was a living thing. If he could just sync with Matt’s drum then they’d be perfect. 

“You’re hot too,” mumbled Matt as if he could ever know. The words flowed through him, buzzing with sweet cocaine. “I need your cock inside me.”

This wasn’t a lie; the coke never lied. She was his best friend. Blood was thicker than water and there she sat - the mother he never knew, the sister he never had. Adam pushed inside him, groaning. Terrible beauty radiated from their union. Flesh to flesh, they rocked together, a safe thing, a home. He was achingly hard. Adam jerked him off with a rough hand. His face was a blank slate that made Matt’s chest ache. Matt reached up to rest his hand on Adam’s cheek. He sucked Matt’s wandering thumb into his mouth - baptism. Matt came and he came and he came and he came until everything hurt but still Adam kept going

Each thrust hurt so much. “No -“ tried and failed to escape from Matt’s lips. He ran his hands up Adam’s thighs, praying to himself for the end. They were the last people on earth; Adam walked with a ghost. Matt scooped up some of the cum on Adam’s abs and ate it. Adam keened as he came. He rolled off of Matt and held his hand until he crashed into a deep sleep.

Matt stayed awake until he remembered he wasn’t God. Time pulled his body into sleep like a riptide. He awoke furiously at dawn and slowed his racing thoughts with more cocaine.

It was time to plot his revenge on the man who put him through Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 AM post. Is YOLO still a thing? Big mood right now. But the last section spilled out of me like most cocaine benders I write are wont to do and my happy cat is being very supportive trilling on my lap as he sleeps. So, why not go for it?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for very minor character death and fear of rape/murder.

Dawn was purple on the California-Mexico border. After a tense crossing last night, she and Paolo had stalled their car in the parking lot of a truck stop in the middle of nowhere. Mercifully, he hadn’t had the energy to grope her before he slumped over dead asleep in the front seat. Karen was too frightened to sleep. The stars were more welcome companions than whatever nightmare creatures were living in the recesses of her subconscious. 

Paolo snorted in his sleep and shifted onto his side. A thin line of drool leaked out of his mouth. It seeped into the seat’s cloth, leaving a dark spot behind. Karen swallowed back a dry heave. Each hour she spent with Paolo, even in sleep, made her feel unclean. Soon, his wandering hands would wake. Karen prayed her body wouldn’t force her into sleep while at this man’s mercy. Best case scenario, she’d wake up violated; worst case scenario, she wouldn’t wake at all.

Early morning delivery trucks were pulling into the parking lot now. Men were getting out to stretch their legs and take showers. She squinted to try and read the license plates - all California. Probably not even interstate trucks. If even  _ one  _ was headed out East. . .

Like an answered prayer,  **New York** pulled into the truck stop several feet behind them. A middle-aged woman with short, dark hair stepped out of it. She looked up at the sky, squinting at the rising sun. Then, she put her hands on her hips and twisted her back to the right and left. Her truck let out a beep when she clicked its fob to lock it.

Her hand pressed hungrily to the glass as she watched the woman head towards the building. When the woman was almost inside, she spotted Karen. . .and then Paolo, judging by her face's quick transformation from curiosity to disgust. Karen flushed with shame and pulled her hand away from the window. The woman furrowed her brow, lifted her arm in the air, and pointedly unlocked her truck. She gave Karen a little nod for emphasis and headed inside. 

Karen watched the digital clock tick by for ten minutes before she registered that she was wasting time. At any moment, her one ticket to freedom could come right back out the door and see her still inside the car. She’d be stuck with Paolo for God knows how long - maybe all the way to New York, if he didn’t kill her first. Still, she’d been at the mercy of men for so long that escaping the familiar clutch of degradation presented its own form of terror. If Paolo wasn’t by her side, he could chase her and whatever companion took her under their wing. The only way out would mean hurting Paolo so badly that he couldn’t come after them.

Heart pounding, she reached over to grip the gun on Paolo’s lap. He didn’t stir. She swallowed and picked up the gun. Its steel bit into her palm in a way that made her feel alive for the first time in years. Paolo’s eyes fluttered open. He squinted up at her in confusion. Before he registered what was going on, Karen hit him in the temple with the gun. He cried out in pain and gripped his bleeding head. 

“You  _ bitch _ !” he yelled. Karen was shaking too hard to respond. She smacked him on the other side of his head so hard that she heard a loud crack. Paolo slumped over unconscious in his seat. Karen tucked the gun under her armpit and raided his pockets for his phone and wallet with shaking fingers. Cancelling his accounts and finding a new phone would slow down his chase considerably if he woke up.

_ If _ . A whole new world of agency within a single word.

She hit him one last time in the temple for a little insurance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a little short but I was really annoyed at myself for not posting for a month and a half. I’ve been writing - I swear! This chapter was just necessary but also not very self indulgent honestly + I’ve had a bunch going on.


End file.
